


Skin Flick

by JeanLuciferGohard



Category: Gideon the Ninth - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: F/F, First Time, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, gideon nav's alarmingly comprehensive porn library, pool scene redux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 07:23:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21193835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanLuciferGohard/pseuds/JeanLuciferGohard
Summary: Two girls, newly emotional, in wet clothes? Gideon’s read a lot of pornography. There’s a way these things go.And where the faint glimmer of maybe getting laid yet burns, there too goes Gideon Nav.Pool Scene Redux.





	Skin Flick

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to the Gideon 9th discord

“Do you really have the hots for some chilly weirdo in a coffin?”

The skeleton’s foot catches her squarely between the shoulders.

Gideon flies in a long, beautiful arc, and hits the water like a slap.

At first, there is nothing but the breathless, burning cold, chewing at her sinuses while Gideon thrashes, clawing at the wet tangle of her robes until she can stand again. Then there’s—

There’s the fucking  _ cold _ , still, as she fights her way back to the edge of the pool. Harrow looks down on her with serene contempt, and all Gideon can think is that you  _ know _ it must be fucking cold, not because of the fizzing numbness biting at her hands, or the kicked-in ache in her molars, but because the Reverend Daughter’s nipples are drill-bit hard, peaking stiffly even through all her layers of Ninth blacks.

And then it occurs to Gideon that she said so out loud.

“ _ What _ .”

So. So, okay, didn’t quite stick the landing there, Nav, but it’s recoverable, really, we can still pull this one out, and Gideon Nav believes this with her whole heart right up until, instead of literally anything else, the sluggish trickle of thawing blood to her brain spits out:

“No, like. Are you even wearing anything under there?”

The good news is, no skeletons appear to drown her.

The bad news is, no skeletons appear to drown her, which would at least be familiar. It would at least better than the fucking _suspense_, but all Harrow does is stare at her blackly, eyes like a hole in everything, and the buzzing flourescent light above them casting unflattering shadows across the high horns of her forehead. It makes her look a little bit green, a little bit _Sirens of the Seventh 3 (Now _**_Wetter_** _than Ever!),_ and a little bit like she doesn’t exist at all, except for the pale blobs of jaw and wrists that after almost twenty years of obsessive threat-assessment and analysis, Gideon has still only just now seen.

Harrow peels the heavy folds of her cloak away from her chest with a brittle, precise tug. Something shudders behind her face like a faulty engineering readout, and her hands are so white, and so thin, and honestly, even without the abrupt, shuttle-crash of a realization that Harrowhark Nonagesimus has  _ tits _ , it would still be a  _ lot _ ; Harrowhark’s bare hands and Harrowhark’s bare face, and Harrowhark’s standing, and turning on her heel and stalking off, so  _ wow _ , okay.

Rude.

Still, nothing more than a skeletal punt onto a (mostly) yielding surface? From Harrow, that’s practically a love tap. Fuck, that’s pretty much  _ foreplay _ , at this point. Two girls, newly emotional, in wet clothes? Gideon’s read a  _ lot _ of pornography. There’s a way these things go.

And where the faint glimmer of maybe getting laid yet burns, there too goes Gideon Nav.

* * *

It’s not exactly  _ Two Hot to Handle: Cohort Queens of the Second _ that Gideon walks in on. 

Harrow undresses like somebody stripping an engine for parts, shedding layer after of black with a choppy, vindictive momentum. With all the eroticism of somebody prepping a taxidermy specimen. Like a case study of all possible conjugations of the verb “to flense”.

And, no, as it turns out; no, Harrowhark Nonagesimus is not, in fact, wearing anything under all that, nothing at all interrupting the faintly ridged shadow of her spine. There’s a lot of shoulder action happening, a lot of sweeping, shallow curves that look longer than they are, a lot of feral skinniness that you’d need a certain kind of palate to appreciate.

So call her a fucking sommelier, because Gideon’s palate is  _ developed _ , apparently.

She whistles. 

Harrow whirls on her, eyes black and hot.

Harrow’s underwear is boring, and black, and wet, not in the sexy way, more like the “i spent forty-five minutes in a pool revealing the darkest secrets of my House to you” kind of way. Harrow has one arm barred across her hollow, avian chest, which is only  _ kind _ of working, as far as preserving her modesty goes; she’s managed to crush her palm over one breast, but the other one is just  _ there _ , not even half-hidden behind her arm, and all Gideon can think is that the Harrow has thin hands. Harrow has thin hands, so there’s flashes of skin peeking out between her bony fingers, but Gideon has  _ bigger _ hands, which could probably definitely cover Harrow’s tits entirely with her palms.

So it’s not exactly  _ Thirsty Threesomes on Ida _ , but Gideon is  _ definitely _ coming around.

(It  _ is _ a little bit like  _ Nine’s Naughty Nuns _ , which Gideon read only once before dismissing as  _ way too fucking weird _ .)

Harrow is...weirdly unselfconscious, for a war crime. 

“You’re a disgusting pervert, ” she bites out.

Gideon sucks her teeth. 

“Okay, so I feel like I should point out that  _ you’re _ the one who’s naked right now. My tenebrous night-queen.”

“I am tired,” Harrow sniffs, “of being wet.”

“Said no-one, ever.”

“Disgusting,” Harrow repeats, yanking a fresh robe down from its hanger with unnecessary force.

To be fair, though, to be fair, the wet robes are legitimately just awful to be in, so Gideon shrugs, and unceremoniously hauls the sodden bulk of them off over her own head all in one go.

“Well,” she drawls, peeling off the elastic keeping her own, bigger-than-Harrow’s, tits contained, “at least I’d know what to do if  _ I _ met my cryogenically-preserved dead girlfriend, instead of acting like a weird virgin about it, O prince of anatomists.”

She slingshots her bra across the room. Who wears a bra to bed? Serial killers, that’s who.

Harrow snorts.

“You  _ are _ a weird virgin, Nav, your disturbingly comprehensive library of pornography notwithstanding,” she says, witheringly, and then:

“Anyway, I’m not an  _ idiot _ , I’m aware of the mechanics involved.”

They must be in a war zone, thinks Gideon. They must be on Cohort front lines somewhere, because these  _ bombs _ keep dropping. 

And instead of literally anything else, the blood struggling valiantly, uselessly back up to Gideon’s brain spits out:

“Oh my  _ God, _ do you jerk off?”

* * *

“ _ Space Sluts: Solo Mission to Planet XXX.” _

Nothing.

“ _ Templars of the Tight Ass _ , the one with the redhead.”

Nothing.

“Come  _ on,” _ Gideon whines, gesticulating, “You gotta give me  _ something _ . Please. My elegiac mistress. My dread, obsidian liege. Your vassal implores you.”

Gideon Nav prostrates herself, if you could call crawling up the length of her bed to reach out and shake Harrow by the ankles “prostration.”

Harrow, clearly, does not, twitching her foot ominously, and Gideon only  _ just _ dodges a kick to the head.

“Okay, I’ll level with you. For me, it was the sterling literary efforts of  _ Space Sluts _ . That’s how I figured out that it was a thing in the first place. What I’m concerned about is how  _ you _ figured out it was a thing, because you won’t  _ tell _ me, and you can’t just drop a bomb like that and not elaborate! How am I even supposed to process this, like, conceptually?”

“Figure it out,” Harrow drawls, drawing her knees back up to her chest.

It’s been long enough that they’re both mostly dry, Gideon’s hair raked into brilliant cowlicks, and Harrow’s spread out in a wild halo of incongruously fluffy curls that she won’t stop tugging at, sleeves pulled low over her hands. It’s an oddly silent motion; most of her arsenal is heaped on a bedside table, bangles and choker and earrings clattering over each other in a calcified tangle. One bare shoulder rises like a dune out of the collar of her robe.

“Oh my God,” Gideon says, “was it  _ Ortus? _ ”

Harrow makes a  _ noise _ , like the platonic ideal of revulsion, like the force of her utter and abject disgust at very  _ idea _ could blister enough flesh off the bone to turn a body into a skeleton from a mile off, and make it kick its’ own ass.

“Don’t be  _ vile! _ ”

She glares, as if this alone could Gideon nail to the wall through sheer force of will.

Then she sighs, tugging at her hair and her sleeves and the lone earring remaining to her, a long spike through the shell of her ear, and turns away.

“I don’t—” she begins, haltingly, “It’s not like I do it  _ often _ .”

“Yeah, I figured. If you did, you wouldn’t be as uptight.”

“Were you not listening to me when I told you that I was two hundred corpses?” she snaps, “I’m two hundred corpses. Kills the mood, just a little bit.”

It’s hard to tell if the bed is too big for Harrow, or if Harrow’s too small for the bed, but she looks so  _ small _ , nervously working at her scaphoid through her sleeve, hunched like a mean stray into her own knees. She thrashes when Gideon hauls herself up onto the vast mattress and wraps both arms around her, but weakly. More of a formality than anything else.

Gideon Nav does not cop a feel. Honest.

“This is a disciplinary hug,” she announces. “Do not derive enjoyment from it. Or do? I mean—like, you don’t  _ have  _ to do this. Your body can just be...yours. You can just feel stuff, and not walk around like ‘I, Harrowhark Nonagesimus, will mortify my flesh in atonement for the sins of my batshit crazy parents’ all the time.”

Her head fits almost perfectly under Gideon’s chin. Her hair smells like salt.

“What exactly do you suggest I do instead?” she mutters.

Gideon Nav considers the facts. 

Harrow has hangups. Harrow has  _ tits _ , small and dusky and probably the exact right size to fit into Gideon’s palms, and the legs, also, are very theoretically interesting, and the swoop of neck still faintly indented from Harrow’s phalangeal choker offers a number of intriguing possibilities also. Also, they might die, like,  _ tomorrow _ . Gideon refuses, on principle, to die a virgin. It’d be a  _ crime _ .

“I dunno,” she shrugs, “We could have sex about it?”

Harrow twists, a complicated wriggle that implies a  _ very _ interesting degree of flexibility, and stares at her incredulously.

“Are you serious?”

Gideon grins.

“One flesh, baby.”

“That is  _ absolutely  _ not what that means.”

* * *

So, good news:

Gideon’s hands  _ are _ big enough. Harrow’s flat, dusky breasts fit completely inside her palms, and Harrow whines somewhere high in the back of her throat as Gideon’s callouses rasp over her skin. It’s a gratifyingly inarticulate sound. 

Her hands curl and uncurl restlessly at the back Gideon’s neck, blunt nails combing through the fine hairs at her nape. Harrow rolls her head against the pillow, throat tipped all the way back, and gasps raggedly when Gideon scrapes her teeth experimentally over her collarbones.

Harrow’s hips stutter upward on a choked inhale as Gideon gently sweeps the pads of her fingers between her legs, and Gideon groans back. It’s  _ hot _ , like, sexy-hot, but also like Harrow is burning up from the inside, eyes closed and sweating while Gideon drags her fingertips in a lazy circle.

And then Gideon licks a wet stripe up the side of her neck, and Harrow’s eyes fly open.

“Disgusting,” she pants, but here is something you could almost mistake for a smile hiding at the corner of her mouth, and her eyes are enormous and Harrow shoves at Gideon’s head, but only to bring Gideon’s mouth closer to her chest.

“You’re so mean,” Gideon snickers.

“You should have thought of that earlier,” Harrow whispers, and, more good news: 

She  _ is _ that flexible, twisting and arching her back up off the mattress in all  _ kinds _ of interesting ways.

So, and here’s the thing, is that Gideon is:

One, alive when she should've died seventeen years ago, and two, apparently supernaturally gifted at swordsmanship, so there’s really nothing to suggest that she wouldn't be absolutely  _ outstanding _ at eating pussy, also.

It is with this conviction burning within her that Gideon Nav slips down the length of her necromancer’s body, and smooths her legs apart, running her hands slowly over Harrow’s thighs.

It is at this point that Harrowhark Nonagesimus kicks her cavalier in the head.

“What the  _ fuck? _ ” Gideon yelps, rearing back, one hand pressed to her throbbing temple.

But instead of her usual expression of self-satisfied malice, Harrow looks...worried, propped awkwardly up on her elbows, stammering:

“I didn’t—I—Gideon—” Harrow works her jaw back and forth, and she doesn’t  _ apologise _ , per se, just collapses back into the pillows and folds her arms over her naked chest, “that...tickled.” she finishes lamely, eyes cast down, mouth set in a thin, hard line.

And nothing, nothing in all her eighteen years of life will  _ ever _ compare to the knowledge that Harrowhark Nonagesimus, the Reverend Daughter, the most Heinous Bitch to ever heinously bitch at someone is  _ ticklish _ . Fuck the two-hander,  _ this _ is the greastest weapon anybody’s ever handed to her.

Gideon  _ laughs _ , a joyous, unhinged hoot, and pounces back up, covering Harrow’s body with her body and Harrow’s hands with her hands. Gideon has big hands. Both of Harrow’s slender wrists fit in one of her palms, which is great, actually, because it leaves to other one free to probe for more ticklish spots while Harrow squirms and curses under her.

“You are  _ never _ gonna live this down,” Gideon announces, planting a loud, smacking kiss on Harrow’s the hinge of Harrow’s jaw, “I am never ever ever gonna let it go.”

“Gideon,” Harrow says, low and serious, “Shut up.”

Her mouth tastes like...a mouth, there’s nothing really that Gideon can compare it to. Harrow tastes like Harrow. Her skin tastes like skin as Gideon bites hickeys into her ribs, the soft underside of her breasts, the high points of her hip bones. Harrow makes thin, soft noises she must not even be aware of, because they’re thready and vulnerable and she’d probably shut herself immediately if she ever found out. Gideon resolves to never let her.

Gideon sweeps her tongue gingerly up and down, and  _ oh _ .

_ That’s _ what that tastes like.

It’s not bad, really.

Above her, Harrow whines and curses and pushes her trembling hands over and over through Gideon’s hair, and Gideon can barely even hear any of it, because Harrow’s legs are clamped around her head like a vise, and anyway her own blood is so loud in her ears, sucking greedily at Harrow’s clit and dragging her necromancer’s bucking hips closer every time it seems like Harrow might twitch away, because that would be  _ unbearable _ . There’s a point at which Harrow’s legs are draped over her shoulders, and Gideon has her held up almost all the way off the bed, touching the mattress only where her narrow shoulder blades bunch and tense. Harrow is easy to move. Harrow is slicker than anything, and sure, it’s no—

There’s not a single skin mag that compares, really. Not one.

Harrow comes like a fist clenching, with a soft cry so quiet Gideon almost misses it entirely.

“Gideon,” she murmurs dreamily, nuzzling faintly at her cavalier’s neck in the aftermath, “it’s important to me that you know that’s not what ‘one flesh’ means. I need you to understand that. Do you understand that?”

Gideon snorts, and pokes her in the ribs, and Harrow yelps ticklishly and threatens myriad skeletal atrocities upon her person, so sure, it’s no  _ Lyctor? I hardly know her! (with 9 pages of bonus content, submit the attached card to enter for a chance to win our special edition calendar) _ ; there is a distinct lack of the worshipful gratitude that Gideon Nav is rightfully owed, but.

But honestly, fuck it.

“Love you too, my charnel mistress,” Gideon murmurs into Harrow’s temple, smoothing a damp curl back into place. 

“Even if you are a huge bitch.”

**Author's Note:**

> hit ya bitch up on [tumblr ](thefaustaesthetic.tumblr.com) or [ twitter](twitter.com/gin_n_chthonic)


End file.
